


Felt so Wrong, Felt so Right

by Zoejoy24



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ass Play, Begging, Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Bondage, Cock Warming, Collars, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Father/Son Incest, Flogging, Incest, Knifeplay, M/M, Martin is a Manipulative Bastard, Medical Kink, Men with needs, Multiple Orgasms, Name-Calling, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Smut, Sounding, Speculum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: Written as a fill forthis promptover on the Prodigal Son kink meme:Malcolm is experimenting in college and decides to go to a BDSM club.Martin, who never was arrested and works there as an alternative to murder sometimes, is surprised to see his blindfolded son tied down and vulnerable before him...but also really not upset about it.The kinks could be any pls just make the boy a whimpering mess who is very confused about why he likes it way too much 👀
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 31
Kudos: 203
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this instead of sleeping. Totally worth it. 
> 
> This story contains INCEST. And a lot of Kink. If you don't like it, don't read it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick explanation of the tags are in the end notes.

Malcolm isn’t sure how he got himself into this situation, but now there’s no turning back, and he’s okay with that.

Of course, he knows how he got  _ here, _ technically. It had been a process, really. Gradual baby steps down a path that he’d started on sometime during the beginning of his sophomore year, a little over a year ago. He’d started seeing an upperclassman who’d introduced him to some new things, opened him up to a whole new world of possibilities in the bedroom, and beyond. But then he’d graduated and left Malcolm with  _ needs _ and no way to meet them until he’d heard about this place. A club called X, a little too close to the city for Malcolm’s comfort, but honestly, who would he know that went to a place like this?

He’s visited a few times before, but he didn’t really  _ participate _ , content to watch and learn, to get a sense of the rhythms and rules of the place (and take plenty of wank material home with him when he left.) But tonight was different. Tonight he was ready, or so he thought.

He’s dressed to play—leather briefs, tight and  _ short _ , with a leather collar around his neck and matching leather cuffs on his wrists. He’s alone, and that’s a little unnerving, but he’d made some connections on his last visit and at least one of them was guaranteed to be there this evening to walk him through it. 

And that was how he’d found himself in his _ current situation _ . 

Blindfolded, and tied down to a table. 

His hands are stretched above his head, the cuffs clipped together and attached to a rope which pulls them up, towards the head of the table, holding them securely in place. His ass is practically hanging off the other edge of the table, and his legs are spread wide, his ankles locked into cuffs and attached to the table legs. He’s more or less immobile, able to writhe and twist a bit, but not much. He lays there, and waits. 

He almost loses it, at first. The anticipation that had been building all evening had nearly overcome him when his ankles had been strapped in, and he nearly lashed out, kicking away the unknown hands and getting the fuck out. He’d fought the urge, but barely.

Now, he takes a deep, calming breath, and then another. It isn’t his first time being tied down, or being blindfolded, it isn’t even his first time opening himself up for anonymous sex. It's just the first time he’s done it in public, alone. But he’s fine, and he  _ wants _ it. He forces a sudden spike of fear down, lets it wash over and through him and build into  _ desire _ as he gives up control of his body to whoever wants to use it.

It isn’t long before the touches start to come. Light, at first. Teasing, testing his response. He’s jumpy, still strung so tight with nervous anticipation that each touch feels like a shock of electricity over his skin. He struggles to maintain a steady breathing pattern, to relax his mind and his body as he sinks into the sensations.

They start on his chest, mostly. Light touches at first, finger tips running over his shoulders and up along the sensitive skin of his inner arms, or down along his ribs, nails scraping across his chest and belly. A finger circles his nipple lightly and his whole body reacts, hips jerking, a startled gasp escaping his mouth. “Like that, did you?” someone chuckles.

The touches soon turn into kisses, two or three mouths on him at once, kissing and licking down his throat, over his chest. Someone dips their tongue into his belly button and he throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut behind the blind fold as he sucks in a ragged breath.

Fingers weave their way into his hair, tilting his head back, and lips meet his in the briefest of kisses. 

Then suddenly, it all stops, and he’s left alone, bereft of touch when moments before there had been  _ so much _ . A hush falls over the area around him and he turns his head, this way and that, trying to get a sense of what had caused the sudden change in the atmosphere. Had he done something wrong? Was he boring them?

There’s a hand on him again, running along his ribs, and it's so unexpected that he jumps, jerking away instinctually before relaxing into the touch. Someone chuckles, low and dark, but no one speaks. All he can hear is his own ragged breathing. The hand trails up his ribs, over his chest, pausing briefly to tweak his nipple before continuing up, over the column of his throat, tugging lightly on the collar. The touch changes, from the flat of a palm running over him to just the tips of fingers sliding over his cheek, then into his hair.

They tighten there, pulling his head back once more with a quick jerk that sends sparks of  _ painpleasure _ running through him, and then someone’s kissing him once more.

***

Martin Whitly is a man of varied tastes, with deep seated needs that can’t always be filled in simple ways. Some of those needs are met by his wife and family, but not all of them. Some are met by his work as a surgeon, some by his work as The Surgeon. But he can’t always be The Surgeon, and when he needs an outlet during those times when he’s laying low or planning for his next round of experiments, he comes here, to X. At X, he can be in complete control of another human being, shape their body to his will, use it as he pleases, and the preparation and clean-up are much easier than when he’s  _ working _ . He’s been coming here for years and he’s well established as one of the top Doms at the club. He’s familiar with almost everyone, has worked with most of them, but tonight there’s someone new, someone who’s turning lots of heads.

He didn’t see him come in but word travels fast, and soon Martin’s told that there’s a new sub looking for someone to play with, and that he’s offered himself up for the taking. Martin can’t help but be intrigued, so he makes his way over to where the new boy has set up shop.

He doesn’t recognize him at first. At first, all he notices is how pretty he is; small, lithe, and completely vulnerable, strapped down and spread out and lovely. He’s got a smattering of hair on his stomach and dusted across his chest, curling enticingly around taught nipples. There are several admirers gathered around him already, teasing him with light touches all along his upper body. It isn’t until one of them steps away that Martin is able to see the subs face, see that he’s blindfolded, see—

Not much catches Martin by surprise, but for once in his life he’s completely taken aback. Because the boy on the table is his  _ son _ , Malcolm. Martin expects to be put off by this realization, but he’s not. He is, however, instantly overcome with a possessive rage at the thought of  _ strangers _ touching  _ his boy _ , kissing him,  _ using _ him. What right do they have to his son? He stalks over, dialing back his fury as he walks because he doesn’t want to cause a scene, his reputation here is far too important to him. He’s still in control, even of his rage. But his anger must show through all the same because the crowd parts before him, a hush falling as he approaches, as he pulls away the man who’d been too caught up in kissing Malcolm to notice his approach. The man bats his hand away angrily, snarls _ what the fuck _ under his breath before he realizes who’s in front of him and backs away.

Beneath him, Malcolm is clearly confused, head twisting back and forth as he tries in vain to figure out what had caused everyone to move away. He’s smart, his boy; he’s sensed the change in dynamics, the shift in the atmosphere. Martin suddenly wonders how much his son knows about this world, how much experience he has, how many other people have touched him? But, there’s something in Malcolm’s movements—the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s shifting on the table rather than waiting in subservient stillness—that leads Martin to believe that Malcolm hasn't had much experience at all in this world, or with other Doms. And that’s good, because Malcolm is  _ his _ .

His son has always looked up to him, adored him, gone to him for guidance and advice. Why should it be any different now? Martin is the best Dom here, and if this is what Malcolm wants, what he  _ needs _ , then he deserves the best, and no other Dom deserves  _ him _ .

Martin touches him, finally, and Malcolm’s reaction is delightful. He’s so vulnerable like this, spread out beneath Martin, at his mercy. His skin is soft, perfect like the rest of him, and Martin revels in the feel of it under his palm, in the feel of Malcolm’s chest rising and falling with each precious breath. He’s going to take those breaths away from him, later, but for now he just looks and touches. He’d seen Malcolm’s reaction to having his nipples played with earlier and files that information away as well, though he can’t resist the urge to squeeze one hard, pebbled nub between his fingers as he works his way up Malcolm’s body. Malcolm’s breath hitches— _ so sensitive _ , Martin muses. 

He continues his exploration, smiles at the collar around Malcolm’s neck, wonders where he got it. He resists the urge to squeeze as he brushes over Malcolm’s throat, turns his hand so he can run the backs of his fingers reverently over his boy’s cheek. Then, he finishes what the man who’d kissed Malcolm earlier had started, and twists his fingers into Malcolm’s hair, pulling his head back so that he can kiss him properly.

Malcolm returns the kiss, opening willingly to him when Martin deepens it, when he slips his tongue into Malcolm’s mouth. He grips Malcolm’s chin with his other hand, holding him in place as he takes his mouth,  _ claims _ him. Martin pulls away, reluctantly, and Malcolm inhales sharply then exhales in a frustrated moan, hips shifting in tiny jerks.

Martin wants to speak, to praise and chide and command, but he’s afraid of what Malcolm’s reaction will be at hearing his voice. Malcolm doesn’t know,  _ yet _ , what Martin can do for him. He doesn’t realize why it should be this way, why Martin refuses to let anyone else touch him. Martin can be patient. Still, he can’t keep completely silent. He deepens his voice, talks as quietly as he can while still being heard and asks “what do you want?”

Malcolm whines, hips twitching upwards in desperate little movements and Martin knows what he really wants, but he’s not getting  _ that _ anytime soon.

“Anything, anything you want to give me, fuck,  _ please, _ just touch me again,” Malcolm begs, and the sound goes straight to Martin’s cock in a way that the boy’s moans and whimpers had yet to do. 

He bites back his own groan and kisses Malcolm once more, runs his hand down Malcolm’s body and squeezes him once through his sinfully tight shorts. Malcolm moans against Martin’s lips, pressing up into the kiss and into Martin’s hand as best he can. Martin finally pulls away, straightens and takes a slight step back, though he keeps his fingers twisted in Malcolm’s hair, tugging just enough to remind Malcolm that he’s there, and that he’s in charge. He looks Malcolm over once more, considers all the options before him, the things he could do to his beautiful boy to make him come undone under his hands. 

“Have you ever been flogged?” he asks in his deceptively lowered voice once more.

Malcolm tries to nod, but realizes he can’t with Martin’s fingers twisted in his hair and gasps out a desperate ‘yes’ instead.

“Good. This is what’s going to happen. I’m going to flog you, and then I’m going to fuck you. Do you understand?”

Malcolm moans in response and Martin shakes his head roughly with a sharp tug on his hair. “Answer me,” he growls.

“Yes, yes I— I understand.”

“Understand…?”

“Sir.”

“Good,” Martin murmurs, then he slaps him. Not hard, barely enough to sting, just hard enough to feel good. He knows it does by the way Malcolm’s mouth drops opens, the way he moans.

For a moment Martin wishes Malcolm wasn’t blindfolded and that he could see his boy’s eyes. He’s always so expressive, wearing his heart on his sleeve, and Martin can only imagine how stunning his eyes would be now, the emotions he’d see there. But the trade off is worth it. Having Malcolm at his mercy is worth it, and the rest of the boy’s body is enticing enough. He steps away, surveys a row of floggers hanging on a nearby wall, and selects one, a favorite of his. He returns and drapes the strands lightly over Malcolm’s stomach, resting the handle on the table.

Malcolm sucks in a breath, on edge and sensitive to even the lightest touch, and Martin smiles wickedly.  _ This is going to be fun. _

“You can make noise, but don’t speak,” he orders. “Nod if you understand.”

Malcolm nods, two quick jerks of his head.

“Good, then let’s begin.”

He slides the flogger off of Malcolm’s stomach slowly, let’s him feel each strand as it moves across his skin. The first strike is light, just a soft flick of the wrist to let the strands fall back down across his skin. Malcolm shudders, takes a deep breath and relaxes back onto the table. Martin repeats the same light strike, building up speed and force little by little for a few moments more before landing the first real blow across Malcolm's chest. Malcolm grunts at the impact and bites his lip, and Martin continues.

He varies the force and the speed of his strikes, keeps Malcolm guessing. The sounds Malcolm makes go straight to Martin’s cock, and while he’d certainly been more than interested before, now he’s positively  _ aching _ , torn between wanting to take his time with his boy, to take him apart and put him back together, and wanting to just  _ take _ him.

He keeps whipping. Once he has a feel for Malcolm’s reactions and tolerance he shifts his strikes lower, bringing the flogger down over Malcolm’s leg, striking along his inner thigh in several light but rapid hits. They take Malcolm by surprise and he cries out loudly, hips bucking as he pulls against his restraints. Martin relents, momentarily, brings the flogger down over his stomach once more. Malcolm sucks in a breath, gathers himself, starts to relax into the pain again, and Martin brings the flogger down over his thigh once more, harder this time. Malcolm sobs, his composure finally breaking and he nearly speaks, lips forming a word but he clamps down just in time. Martin nods in approval and tosses the flogger to the side.

“Good?” he asks, running a hand through Malcolm’s hair gently. “You may speak,” he adds.

Malcolm nods, swallows, manages a hoarse ‘yes, sir.’

“Good boy. Do you need anything?”

“No-o. Just, fuck me. Please. Please, I need…”

Martin places a finger over his mouth to quiet him, then slips the tip in between Malcolm’s lips. Malcolm moans, closes his lips around him and circles the tip of his finger with his tongue. Martin groans at the sensation, cock twitching in anticipation of similar treatment, and he starts to consider the option. He pulls his finger out with a pop and Malcolm whines. The whine turns into a gasp and breathy ‘fuck’ when Martin drags the spit-slicked tip of his finger over Malcolm’s nipple. His chest is red from the flogger, and Martin can only imagine how sensitive the skin there must be already. Malcolm tenses, back arching, mouth open in a silent O for a moment before the breath escapes his lungs in a loud groan and he falls back onto the table. Martin flicks lightly at the tight little nub then turns his attention to the other one. Malcolm is writhing beneath him, panting and making incoherent little noises in the back of his throat.

“Could you come like this? Untouched?” Martin asks.

“No!” Malcolm exclaims, and somehow Martin thinks it's more of a plea than an answer. 

Finally he loses patience, can’t wait any longer. He walks to the end of the table, running his fingers down Malcolm’s body as he moves, over his hip, across his thigh, to his ankle, and undoes the cuffs. Malcolm’s hips shift, small little rolling movements as he waits for what he knows is coming next, and he whispers ‘yes, yes, yes’ over and over.

Martin stands, hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of Malcolm’s shorts and tugs, rolling them down off his hips, throwing them off to the side, and Malcolm whimpers as his cock springs free. Martin takes him in his hand, strokes lightly for a moment, pulling more of those delicious sounds from his boy’s lips before releasing him and turning his attention to where he really wants to be. Someone passes him a packet of lube and a condom. He sets the condom on the table, tears open the lube and spreads some on his fingers.

He slips his finger down, circles Malcolm’s rim once before pushing in ever so slightly. 

“Ready?” he asks. Malcolm starts to nod and it's all the permission Martin needs to push in the rest of the way. Malcolm throws his head back, exposing the long line of his neck. His chest is glistening with sweat and still such a beautiful shade of red.

Martin wants to take his time, to really open Malcolm up, but he’s already so worked up that he can’t. Not this time. He works gently, but quickly, slips in a second finger as soon as he thinks he’s able, then a third. He’s got his left hand on Malcolm’s hip, holding him still when he tries to fuck himself on Martin’s fingers.

As soon as Malcolm’s loose enough he withdraws his fingers, ignoring Malcom’s whine of protest at the loss and strips out of his own clothes, rolling on the condom because  _ rules were rules,  _ slicking on more lube _ , _ and lining himself up. He grips Malcolm’s hips hard, and pushes in. 

“Yes, fuck yes,” Malcolm moans above him. 

Martin moves slowly at first, rolling his hips experimentally as he sinks further into Malcolm, short little thrusts until he’s fully seated, his body flush against Malcolm’s.

Malcolm feels exquisite, hot and tight around him, and Martin wants to tell him but he doesn’t trust his own voice. He pauses a moment, lets Malcolm adjust before beginning to fuck him in earnest. 

Martin takes his pleasure from Malcolm’s body, loses himself in the way he feels around him, closing his eyes and tipping his head back as he thrusts in and out of Maloclm’s tight, clinging hole. Malcolm is moaning beneath him, hips rolling to meet his thrusts. 

When Martin starts to get close he pauses, hooking an arm under one of Malcolm’s legs and lifting it to his shoulder, then pressing in even further and leaning over Malcolm’s body. He rests his right hand on the table and reaches up with the other to curl it gently around Malcolm’s throat. He starts to move again, deep thrusts that punch the breath from Malcolm’s lungs in short little  _ guh, guh, guh’s _ , his fists clenched tight above his head. 

Soon Martin gives in entirely, speeding his thrusts and tightening his grip on Malcolm’s throat. Malcolm’s mouth drops open in surprise as his airway is suddenly blocked off. Martin slips his right hand between their bodies and starts to strip his cock. Malcolm thrashes beneath him, writhing and pulling at his restraints and Martin leans over him and whispers “Come for me, my boy,” as he releases his grip on Malcolm’s throat, feels him tighten around him as he comes. Martin follows a few quick thrusts after, collapsing forward onto Malcolm’s chest.

***

Malcolm can’t breathe, and it somehow brings him even closer to the edge of his orgasm. When the man who’s fucking him finally touches him, he knows he’s only moments away, and  _ fuck _ he needs to breathe and he needs to come. Then the man is speaking, telling him to come, and he sounds different but oh so familiar. Malcolm realizes too late why he’s sounded too familiar all along, but he’s coming and air is rushing back into his lungs, and his mind goes blank as the white hot intensity of his orgasm overtakes all his senses. 

He regains his senses with a dawning horror, feels the man—feels his  _ father— _ draped across his chest and he can’t think, can’t even fathom what’s just happened.

“Get off, get off!” he exclaims, twisting to dislodge the weight that holds him down. “Get me out of these cuffs, right now!” 

There are murmurs of concern around him, and the weight disappears. He almost regrets causing a scene because he’d like to come back here, but not if his father is going to be here, too. Someone frees his wrists and he sits up, ripping off the blindfold, and finds himself face to face with his father. He pales, eyes going wide and he opens his mouth to speak but can’t find the words. 

His father lifts a hand, trying to placate him, speaks softly. “Malcolm, calm down, I know this may be a shock…”

“A shock?” he rasps out, voice hoarse. 

He looks around at the people who are nearby, who’d just watched his father fuck him, who have no idea. He can’t do this here, not right now, he decides, and slides off the table.

He should have known better but he’s in turmoil, not thinking about his physical condition. As soon as his feet hit the floor his legs buckle and he nearly falls, but Martin is there in the blink of an eye, holding him up and leaning him back against the table. He boxes him in, and it may  _ look _ like he’s supporting him, but really he’s trapping him.

“Malcolm, my boy. I’m sorry if you’re upset. I understand,” Martin murmurs, his words for Malcolm’s ears only. “I didn’t… I’m not... I only wanted to help you, Malcolm. To give you what you needed. I did that, didn’t I?”

“But why?” Malcolm asks, voice shaky, on the verge of tears. “Why would you want that?”

“Because, you’re my boy,” Martin replies as if it's obvious. “I couldn’t stand by and watch some other man touch you, kiss you. You’re mine, my responsibility.”

Malcolm shudders. His father has always been strangely possessive but this… this is something different. Martin runs gentle fingers up and down one arm, soothing him and Malcolm finds himself giving into the feeling. He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes closed and feels tears slip free.

“Oh, no, my boy, don’t cry,” Martin says, lifting a hand to wipe away one of the tears, then cupping Malcolm’s chin. 

Malcolm finds himself leaning into the touch and he doesn’t understand why but when his father leans forward to kiss him, he doesn’t pull away. Martin settles a hand on his hip and he whimpers, covers it with his own and means to push it away but doesn’t, letting it rest there as he opens himself up to his father’s kiss once more, even returning it hesitantly. 

His father loves him, has always loved him, and he  _ had _ given Malcolm everything he’d needed tonight. He hates himself for it, can’t understand it, but he can’t turn him away now, and maybe not ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagged Dub-Con cause Malcolm is blindfolded throughout, and while he is definitely into what is happening, he doesn't know that its his father doing it, and when he finds out he's not so happy. So yes he is consenting, but would not have been if he'd known who was fucking him. 
> 
> OR would he?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm can't stop thinking about that night, the way his father took him apart and put him back together. He can't stop thinking about how he'd like for him to do it _again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not enough knife play in this fandom. Or medical kinks (that's for next time). If I have to keep using this alternate universe to make them happen, I am perfectly okay with that.

The following days are laced with tension and awkward, heavy silences. Martin gives Malcolm his space, though it nearly kills him to do so. He wants to demand that Malcolm speak to him, and hates not knowing what his boy is thinking. But his patience pays off, and finally Malcolm approaches him to ask if they can meet at a coffee shop after one of Martin’s shifts. He agrees immediately. 

Malcolm’s first question is whether or not Jessica knows about Martin’s extra-marital activities, and Martin assures his son that she does. She knows that he doms, though he _may_ have led her to believe that it was purely non-sexual, that he did it for the thrill of control and that it had nothing to do with desire. A lie, but one she was all too willing to accept if it meant he kept some of those more extreme activities out of their bedroom. He’s not sure if Malcolm believes him, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Have you always wanted to fuck me?” Malcolm asks next, his voice low enough that he won’t be overheard, the question harsh and accusatory in it’s directness.

“No, my boy. I swear to you, I never once looked at you like that before that evening. Even now it doesn’t particularly appeal to me,” he assures him, and it’s true. Malcolm is a handsome young man, and even more lovely beneath his clothes as Martin now knows. But he’s still his son, and despite their activities a few nights ago, he doesn’t view him in a sexual way. Now, if the boy were to get on his knees, lock his hands behind his back and wait patiently for Martin to use him as he pleased… that would be a different story.

Submissive Malcolm and Son Malcolm are two carefully separated entities in Martin’s mind. He’s a master at living a double life, a master at compartmentalizing his needs, and this is no different.

Malcolm looks sceptical, but his shoulders relax and his expression softens. “I still don’t understand,” he whispers, sounding small and lost, and it breaks Martin’s heart.

He knows his son isn’t just talking about him. He’s talking about himself, as well. He doesn’t understand why Martin would want to dominate him, but he also doesn’t understand why he isn’t disgusted by it, why he _wants it, too._

He hasn’t said it, not out loud, but Martin can tell. Malcolm had submitted so beautifully to him at the club, even after realizing who he was, and he wants to do it again, and Martin is more than happy to oblige. 

His son is growing up, becoming more and more of his own man each day and while Martin long ago accepted that Malcolm wasn’t going to be like him (he’d tried, once, to explore the possibility, but it had nearly been a disaster) he’s still had some measure of control and influence in his boy’s life up until now. But that is slowly slipping away as Malcolm grows older. Having Malcolm fully under his control once more had been liberating. It had put back together the pieces of Martin’s heart that had slowly been breaking with each measure of independence Malcolm had gained. He craves control, he needs it. He’d been losing it, where Malcolm was concerned, but now there’s the possibility that it could be restored once more, at least in this one aspect of their lives. And that would be enough for him. For now.

“Malcolm, I know I’ve put you in a difficult situation, and I regret that. But this is nothing to be ashamed of, or to run from. You have needs, and you went to the club to have them met. So did I. The who and the how don’t really matter, do they? It’s just… biology. Psychology. There’s nothing more to it then that.” Martin assures him.

Malcolm looks at him in surprise, mouth opening and closing several times as he processes his father’s words, and Martin presses on before Malcolm can stop him.

“You didn’t care who was… filling those needs… when it was happening, right?”

Malcolm shakes his head. “No,” he whispers.

“So it shouldn’t matter now. You don’t _want_ me, and I don’t _want_ you. We want what we can provide for each other, that’s all.”

“Want?” Malcolm breathes, glancing up sharply to meet Martin’s eyes, expression pinched. “You still want… that?”

Martin chuckles, shifting in his seat at sipping at his coffee to buy time. This is the hard part, when his choice of words will matter most. His wants, his needs, are complex. He doesn’t want to scare Malcolm away, now.

“I like being in control, my boy. You know that. It’s one of the first things you told me after your Intro to Psych class, remember? So, yes, I enjoy playing with submissives. That includes you, apparently. I enjoyed our time together because you are a wonderful submissive. I’d enjoy it with any submissive.”

Malcolm sits in silence, his eyes fixed on his hands which are clasped in his lap as he thinks. “I think… I want that, too,” he whispers finally.

A slow smile spreads across Martin’s face at Malcolm’s admission. He holds himself in check, not wanting to spook his son by being overly excited by the prospect of having him beneath him once more.

“That’s completely understandable, my boy. Of course, if you’d prefer, I’d be more than happy to introduce you to some of the other doms at the club. I know a few of them quite well, and you can trust them to take care of you.” He offers, but he doesn’t mean it. He hopes, _prays_ , that Malcolm doesn’t take the out, that he gives in to what he really wants and says yes to _him_.

Malcolm hesitates, considering. Finally, after what feels like an age, he shakes his head. “No, that’s… I don’t want someone else. Not… not yet.”

“Good. I mean, it’s good to know what you want,” Martin says, catching himself. “Now, my boy. Tell me what you want from _me_.”

Malcolm takes a deep breath, lifting his eyes slowly to meet Martin’s gaze, and begins.

***

Two weeks pass before they return to the club. They’ve had several more discussions about what they both want, about boundaries inside and outside of the club, and with each little talk Malcolm grows more comfortable, more confident. Martin is honestly surprised by how far Malcolm is willing to go. It’s clear he has more experience than Martin originally thought, though they haven’t discussed it in detail.

They meet at the club. One of their agreed upon stipulations is that they keep their personal relationship and sexual relationship completely separate, including arriving separately. Thankfully, neither of them have a daddy kink, so that won’t be an issue, either. Martin demands he be called Sir by all his subs, and Malcolm is more than happy to comply.

As soon as Malcolm arrives Martin goes to him, immediately staking his claim. He’d insisted that Malcolm give him his collar, and he’d brought it with him tonight. They’d discussed this evening in generalities of what Malcolm was willing for Martin to do to him, but nothing specific. The first step, though, is to ensure that Malcolm sees him not as his father, but as his master, and Martin knows exactly what he needs to do to make that happen.

“Malcolm, are you ready?” he asks as he comes to stand before his boy.

Malcolm takes a deep breath, and nods. He’s wearing the same outfit he had the last time, minus the collar, and Martin remedies that. He fastens the collar around Malcolm’s neck himself, just tight enough that Malcolm will feel it with each breath, each swallow, a reminder that he is owned. Malcolm’s eyes flutter shut as Martin secures the collar in place, his lips parting around a small, nearly silent _‘oh.’_

Martin slips a finger through the ring at the front of the collar and gives it a tug, enough to rock Malcolm forward just a tad. “What do you say?” he growls.

“Thank you, sir,” Malcolm murmurs obediently.

“Good boy.” Martin grins, releasing the collar and slapping Malcolm lightly across the cheek.

Malcolm gasps, flushing with arousal almost immediately, and Martin’s smile grows. His boy is a glutton for pain and a natural submissive, eagerly turning control of his body over to his father. His master. Martin circles Malcolm’s body and pulls his hands behind him, securing the cuffs together.

“Come, boy,” Martin orders. He wraps a hand possessively around the back of Malcolm’s neck and guides him through the club. They walk slowly, and he enjoys the opportunity to show his boy off. There are many greedy, hungry looks sent their way, and a few are bold enough to ask permission to touch. Martin agrees, keeping a firm grip on Malcolm's neck as he lets these strangers run their hands over his boy’s body. He can’t blame them--Malcolm is irresistible. 

For his part, Malcolm responds beautifully. He doesn’t fight or shy away from the touches. He stands still, receptive, gasping and moaning when clever fingers find his most sensitive places. He’s placed himself fully in Martin’s hands, and submits to his whims perfectly. 

“Do you like this, Malcolm? Being passed around like a toy?” Martin whispers into his ear at one point, nibbling on his ear lobe while he waits for his answer.

“ _Oh_ , yes sir,” Malcolm’s moans. “Thank you, sir. I do. I like being touched.”

“Yes, you certainly do,” Martin chuckles, reaching down to press against Malcolm'd obvious arousal, squeezing him through the leather shorts.

Malcolm whines, leaning into Martin’s touch as he’s fondled. Martin pulls away after just a few strokes and pulls Malcolm forward once more.

Eventually they make their way to a group of couches gathered in front of a cluster of implements—a St. Andrew’s Cross, a swing, a spanking bench. Only the cross is being utilized at the moment, and they’re still in the early stages of their play. Martin chooses a seat and drags Malcolm to a halt in front of it.

“Kneel,” he orders.

Malcolm’s eyes flicker briefly to his, the slightest of hesitations before he obeys. Martin lets it slide, this time. For the most part, nothing they’ve done this evening has been particularly physical, aside from the occasional grope. Everyone else has been doing the touching. So far. But that’s about to change, and Malcolm knows it. And still, he submits. 

“Yes, sir,” he replies, dropping smoothly to his knees, face lifted to Martin expectantly as he awaits his next command.

Martin cups Malcolm’s face, running his thumb across his cheek tenderly. “That’s my good boy,” he praises, looking down on him with a soft, gentle smile. Malcolm grins, leaning into the touch, his eyes never leaving Martin’s, and the look in those bright blue eyes sends a thrill tingling it’s way down his spine. He nearly changes his mind about what he plans to do next. Someday it may not be necessary, but after much consideration Martin had determined that it would be best, for Malcolm, if he didn't have a constant, visual reminder of who he was fucking as the night went on.

Martin pulls a blindfold from his back pocket and slips it over Malcolm’s face to cover his eyes. The effect is immediate. Malcolm relaxes the slightest bit, exhaling softly. When Martin steps away, leaving him kneeling alone on the floor, Malcolm whines, head cocking to the side as he tries to listen for a sign of Martin’s location. 

Martin sinks down on the nearest couch and reaches out to tug on Malcolm’s collar. “Move forward, stay on your knees,” he orders.

Malcolm obeys, shuffling forward until he’s kneeling between Martin’s legs, pressed up against the couch. He pauses and waits, cheeks and chest flushed in arousal, erection evident through his tight shorts. His breathing is faster than normal, chest rising and falling enticingly. 

Martin settles back into the couch and pulls his own half-hard cock free of his leather pants, stroking himself a few times before reaching forward to cup the back of Malcolm’s head and pull him forward. “Open your mouth, Malcolm,” he orders. 

Malcolm complies, leaning forward awkwardly over the couch and letting his jaw drop open. Martin pulls him into place, running the tip of his cock over Malcolm’s lovely, plump lips before pressing inside, pulling Malcolm down onto his cock. “Relax, boy. Rest your head here, on my leg. There, good boy,” Martin instructs, guiding him to a more comfortable position, laying Malcolm’s head down against his thigh. Malcolm shifts a bit, adjusting his position so that he’s kneeling comfortably, head pillowed on Martin’s leg, lips stretched wide around his cock.

“Mmm, yes. Just like that,” Martin praises. “You’re going to keep my cock warm while I watch these people play, understand? You may lick, but don’t suck, and don’t move unless I tell you. Try to relax.”

He’s not sure if Malcolm has done this before; if he’s ever been a cock warmer, nothing but a wet, hot hole for someone else’s use, but he takes to it well. He settles into the position, body relaxed as he waits. He follows Martin’s rules well, tasting and learning the shape and feel of Martin’s cock with his tongue. Mostly he’s just exploring, but he teases a little as well, working Martin to full hardness in no time at all.

“You’re a good little cock warmer, aren’t you boy?” Martin mutters, tugging lightly at Malcolm’s hair, just enough that he’ll feel it. “Your mouth is made for taking another man’s dick, boy. You’re a natural.” 

Malcolm moans around him at the praise, wiggling his ass in a very enticing manner. 

The boy is _very_ good with his tongue, something Martin files away for another time. He doesn’t plan to come tonight until he’s buried inside of Malcolm’s tight little hole, but next time he may have to fuck his face, come down his throat.

The couple utilizing the cross have really gotten into it now, the sounds of their play filling the air and Martin settles back to watch, one hand resting idly on the top of Malcolm’s head, fingers carding through his soft hair, soothing him when he starts to grow restless. There seems to be a direct correlation between the fervor of the couple playing and Malcolm’s unrest. He begins to shift, hips moving in aborted little thrusts and circles, and he whines around Martin’s cock in response to a particularly loud and lustful cry that comes from the sub on the cross. But he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t try to beg or plead. He keeps Martin’s cock in his mouth, swallowing gently around it, though it doesn’t stop the spit from spilling out of the corners of his mouth.

Finally, Martin relents. He pulls Malcolm off of his cock, gently, and gives him a moment to work the stiffness from his jaw before pulling him up to straddle his lap. He reaches around to cup Malcolm’s ass and pull his hips in flush against his own so that his bare cock can rub up against the smooth leather of Malcolm’s shorts, which do nothing to hide the hardness of his cock beneath them. Malcolm moans loudly as they rub together, and Martin gives a few idle thrusts of his hips, grinding against Malcolm’s body. He pulls Malcolm down into a kiss, groaning into his mouth as he presses against him. Malcolm opens to him eagerly, moaning against his lips as Martin delves in with his tongue, claiming his mouth greedily. 

When he breaks the kiss Malcolm is a panting, boneless heap in his lap. His head drops to rest on Martin’s shoulder, and he can feel Malcolm panting against his neck as the boy continues to thrust against him, searching out whatever friction he can find.

“Time to go, boy. Can you stand?” Martin asks, placing his hands on Malcolm’s hips to shift him off of his lap onto the couch. He tucks himself back into his pants and stands first before reaching down to help as Malcolm slowly makes his way to his feet. He’s unsteady, leaning heavily against Martin as he guides him along to their next, and final, stop for the evening. A thrill goes through Martin at how pliant his boy is beneath his hands, how willing he is to be led, like a lamb to the slaughter… Martin nearly chuckles at the thought. He’d never, ever hurt his boy, not like _that_. But he can’t help but make the comparison in his mind. Just this once.

They arrive at their destination—a padded leather table, similar to the one Malcolm had been tied to that first time. “Wait here, boy, I’ll be right back,” he assures Malcolm, leaning him up against the table before stepping away to gather what he’ll need next. It’s all ready and waiting for him, stashed in a little lock box only he has the key for. He brings the whole box with him back to the bed and turns his attention back to Malcolm.

Martin steps in close, pressing against Malcolm’s front. He wraps one hand around his boy's hip, squeezing firmly, the other around his neck and kisses him again. He takes his time, grinding against Malcolm, working him into a frenzy with his mouth and his body until Malcolm is mewling and thrusting against him in desperation. They’ve gathered a little crowd with their display, and Martin smiles, knowing it will only grow larger once they get started.

Using his grip on Malcolm’s hip, Martin twists him quickly so that he’s facing the table, then pushes him down with a hand between his shoulder blades. Malcolm cries out in surprise at the sudden shift in position, and then again when Martin presses himself up against his ass, grinding against him with a low drown out groan. 

“Your ass feels so good against my cock, boy. I can’t wait to fuck you, make you scream as you come on my cock. Do you want that?”

“Oh god, _yes_ ,” Malcolm groans, sinking down until he’s resting fully on the table, spreading his legs wantonly so he can push back against Martin just a little more.

Martin pulls back and smacks Malcolm hard on the ass, drawing a shocked cry from his lips. “Yes what, boy? You better learn to address me properly,” he warns, delivering another strong smack to Malcolm’s other cheek.

“Sir!” Malcolm cries out, “Yes, sir. Yes, I want your cock, sir,” he rambles.

“Hush. Up on the table now, Malcolm,” Martin orders. He helps Malcolm to crawl up onto the table, then releases the clasp between the cuffs on his wrists. He guides Malcolm with touches, arranging him so that he’s laying on his back, hands and feet stretched out to each corner. Martin secures Malcolm’s wrists to the table deftly with quick, practiced, movements. Before moving on to his ankles he pulls at the edge of Malcolm’s leather shorts, tapping him on the hip and ordering him to lift his ass so he can pull them down and off. In no time at all, Malcolm is laid out beneath him, naked and hard, bound hand and foot, completely at his mercy.

***

Malcolm is… floating. From the moment Martin had secured the collar around his neck, too tight to be truly comfortable, he’d started to drift. Each new experience, new sensation, had widened the divide between his conscious thought and his physical body until finally all that was left was to feel, and to obey. It was euphoric. He thinks _too much_ , all of the time. To give himself up into the hands of another man is freeing and he feels like he’s flying. Floating. The only thing keeping him tethered to reality is his master’s guidance, and now, the strong bindings around his wrists and ankles. There’s very little give in the restraints, no room for him to twist away or fight against whatever Martin has planned for him next. Not that he would, anyways. Malcolm is ready, waiting in a state mindless expectation for whatever comes next.

“I’m not going to fuck you, Malcolm, not yet. I’m going to play with you, first,” Martin tells him, his voice cutting through the fog of arousal clouding Malcolm’s mind, the words sending a bolt of lust shooting along his spine and straight to his already aching cock. _Play with him, like a toy_ , Malcolm thinks, and god, does he want that. He wants to be used, _controlled,_ and Martin is the perfect man for the job. 

Malcolm turns his head towards the sound of his voice, listening for any sign of what he might be preparing to do next, but there is none.

“I’m going to drive you crazy, I might even hurt you a little, but you’ll love it, won’t you? You don’t mind a little pain? You like it when it hurts, isn’t that right?” Martin taunts, and all Malcolm can do is agree.

“Yes sir, I do,” he says, breathless with anticipation.

“Good boy. I know you do. I’m going to give you what you need, all you have to do is lie very still, can you do that?”

“Yes, I can sir. I promise,” Malcolm replies.

“No moving now, and no more speaking. Stay as still and as quiet as you can for me. Understand?”

“Yes sir!” Malcolm exclaims, nodding his head to emphasize his words.

“Starting now, Malcolm,” Martin says, voice deep and commanding.

Malcolm stills, barely breathing as he waits. 

It’s just a touch, at first. Just Martin’s hands, sliding over his body. He cups Malcolm’s pecs, kneading the muscle there with firm, strong strokes, running the pads of his thumbs across Malcolm’s nipples, working them into stiff peaks before moving on. He slides his hands down across Malcolm’s ribs and belly, over hips and thighs and calves, then up again, stopping to squeeze and knead at the muscles along the way.

“Are you feeling sensitive, yet?” Martin whispers, and Malcolm nods once but doesn’t speak. He is, all of his nerve endings igniting as Martin works his way across his body. “I want you to feel each and every touch,” Martin continues, but then he pulls away, leaving Malcolm confused, skin tingling, heart pounding.

Then, there’s something cold and sharp pressing against his skin, just below his bottom rib, in the middle of his belly, and he sucks in a startled breath at the touch and the sudden realization of what Martin had been doing. His skin is alight with feeling, blood gathered at the surface thanks to Martin’s skillful fingers, and even the lightest touch of the small blade feels amplified ten fold against his over-sensitized skin.

It’s a knife, a _scalpel_ , more likely than not. Martin runs the point along his skin, tracing a line just below his rib, all the way back to where his skin starts to slope down towards his back.

“Stay very, very still, Malcolm. I may be a world class surgeon, but even I can’t help it if you move too quickly. I’d hate for you to cut yourself open. These scalpels are very, very sharp, as you know.” As Martin speaks he lifts the blade and places it higher, settling the tip against the dip between Malcolm’s clavicles, just below his collar. Malcolm freezes, lungs seizing at the feel of the sharp blade pressing against the soft skin of his throat. 

“I’m not going to cut you, not today,” Martin continues, finally moving, dragging the scalpel down along his sternum slowly. “But someday, I’d like to. I want to mark you up, cut just enough to draw some blood, to liven up this pretty, pale skin of yours. You’d barely even feel it.”

Martin lifts the scalpel again, and then he’s resting a hand on Malcolm’s hip and sliding the blade across his belly, just above the head of his cock where it lays, hard as ever, twitching at Martin’s dark promises to make him bleed, weeping pre-come onto his skin.

“Oh, you like that idea, do you?” Martin chuckles. He rests the flat of the blade just beneath the head of Malcolm’s cock, pressing ever so lightly, and Malcolm can’t hold back the frenzied whine that escapes his lips. He jerks against the wrist restraints at the sensation as Martin runs the blade along his cock, leg and stomach muscles clenching as he forces himself not to move beneath Martin’s ministrations. As soon as the blade is lifted Malcolm gasps, releasing the breath he’d been holding and sucking in another with a ragged moan.

“I think, maybe, just one,” Martin murmurs.

Malcolm groans, caught somewhere between being afraid, and being more aroused than he can ever remember being in his life. He desperately wants to speak—to beg and to curse—but he keeps the words in, settles on a desperate, high whine as his father presses the tip of the blade against his skin once more, this time on the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thigh.

“Of course, if I cut too far, I could hit the artery. But, as long as you lay very still, you'll be just fine.”

Martin had been right. Malcolm can hardly feel it when the blade breaks the skin, the scalpel so sharp that it takes barely any pressure, and it slices smoothly and cleanly across Malcolm’s skin. When the pain does come it’s hardly more than if he’d been scratched, he knows Martin is skilled enough that that’s likely all it is, just a shallow cut along the first few thin layers of skin.

“Beautiful,” Martin murmurs as he lifts the blade and surveys his handiwork.

Malcolm practically sobs, and his whole body—which had been strung tight as a bow string since the first touch of the blade against his skin—collapses back against the table, his chest heaving as he sucks in a full breath.

He feels a touch against his leg where he’d been cut and he jerks in shock, then freezes, sucking in a panicked breath at the realization that it could have been the knife once more. 

“Hush, hush, I’m done now” Martin soothes, squeezing his leg gently. He keeps one hand there, resting along the curve of his thigh, and runs the tip of one finger along the cut he’d made. Malcolm whimpers at the burn, the feeling of his blood being smeared across his skin, and yet he’s never been more hard in his life.

“Malcolm, you are a treat,” Martin moans softly. “So responsive. You did so well, my boy.”

Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat at the endearment, but he pushes down on the panic that threatens to well within him at the reminder that it’s his father who’d just cut him open, who’d wrecked him so thoroughly. 

“I’m going to clean up now, and then I’m going to fuck you, Malcolm. I’m going to make you beg me to let you come. God, I can’t wait to hear that pretty voice of yours,” Martin says, and Malcolm whines, nodding desperately. He’s ready, so ready to be opened up on Martin’s cock, to come around him, to finally find relief for his aching cock.

“You can speak now, boy,” Martin tells him. He steps away returning seconds later with a wipe. He cleans the blood off of Malcolm’s leg, then smears on some sort of cream before covering it with a bandage. Malcolm lies still and silent beneath Martin’s hands, swimming in sensations and aware of nothing else, his mind empty of coherent thought.

“Malcolm, are you with me?” Martin asks gently, a tender hand coming to rest against his cheek. Malcolm turns his head into it, pressing a kiss to Martin’s palm.

“ _Yes_ ,” he moans, drawing the word out. He moves, finally, shifting and twisting, pulling aimlessly against the restraints and relishing the lack of give.

“How are you feeling? Are you alright?”

Malcolm sighs, taking mental stock of his body. He knows that Martin wants a truthful answer, that he won’t let Malcolm brush off his concern, so Malcolm forces himself to concentrate, just enough to ensure he hadn’t hurt himself in some way.

“Yes, sir. I’m fine. That was… _incredible_. But I’d like for you to fuck me now, please.”

Martin chuckles and slaps him lightly. “Cheeky,” he mutters, though there’s no heat to it. “I can’t wait to get inside of you, boy. You did so well for me. Just a little longer, now.”

Martin frees his ankles from their restraints and carefully guides both his legs back, pressing his feet flat against the table so that his knees are in the air and he’s spread open before him. “Stay like this for me, just while I open you up,” Martin orders.

“Yes sir,” Malcolm says, nodding.

And then there’s a finger circling his rim, and Martin squeezes lube just below his balls, lets it run down his perineum before gathering it up and pressing in with the tip of his finger.

“Oh god, _yes_ ,” Malcolm moans. “Thank you, sir.”

“Good boy,” Martin purrs, pressing in further, squeezing more lube onto his finger with each press until Malcolm is dripping with it, and there’s a wet, squelching sound each time Martin fucks into him with his finger. He doesn’t add another until Malcolm is loose and leaking and begging for it.

“More, please… please fuck me… please, sir,” Malcolm is mumbling, nearly incoherent with need as Martin works him open, playing with his rim, scissoring him open then pressing the pads of both fingers against Malcolm’s prostate.

Malcolm’s body goes taut at the touch and he nearly comes right then and there. It’s only Martin’s quick reaction, the fingers of his free hand wrapping tight around the base of his cock, that stops him and Malcolm keens, head thrashing.

“O-oh, _fuck_ , sir, please,” he sobs, desperate to come.

“I told you you were going to come on my cock, boy, and I haven’t even gotten it inside you yet, so I’m not sure why you think I’ll let you come, now,” Martin growls, pressing in with a third finger and continuing his assault on Malcolm’s body.

“Please, oh please,” Malcolm whispers, straining against the wrist restraints, fucking himself on Martin’s fingers wantonly.

Martin pulls out and Malcolm whines, writhing in anticipation when he feels the pad on the table dip beneath Martin’s weight. Martin lifts his legs up onto his shoulders and lines himself up, then leans forward until Malcolm is bent nearly in half. He presses into Malcolm, barely breaching him with just the tip of his cock before pulling out all the way, then pressing in again, a little farther this time.

Malcolm groans in frustration, tries to fuck himself further onto Martin’s cock, but he doesn’t have the leverage he needs with the way Martin is holding his legs. He can’t do anything but take it, inch by infuriating inch as Martin works his way into his body with the patience of a saint and drives Malcolm crazy with need.

Finally, _finally,_ Martin bottoms out with a groan, and to Malcolm’s complete surprise he immediately pulls back and slams back again, setting up a suddenly brutal pace that leaves Malcolm breathless, each exhale an aborted moan.

“ _Hng…_ Oh, god. Oh, god,” he stutters, barely able to form a single syllable on each exhale.

“You feel so good around my cock,” Martin gasps. He slows, sitting back slightly to fuck Malcolm with long, powerful strokes that reach deep inside of him and brush forcefuly against his prostate with each dragging pass along the walls of his channel. “You take it so well, and you’re still so fucking tight. _God_.”

“Can I come, _please_?” Malcolm begs, the slower pace allowing him to draw enough breath to beg. “Please sir, can I come?”

“Yes, Malcolm, you can come. Come for me,” Martin orders, picking up the pace of his thrusts once more, fucking into him hard and fast.

Malcolm sobs in relief, feels the pressure building in his belly as his balls draw in tight to his body and he doesn’t fight it, instead he lets wave after wave of pleasure that's coursing through him build, with each stroke of Martin’s cock, until it’s too much and he comes with a shout, untouched, cock spurting rope after rope of thick, white come onto his chest and stomach, and his mind goes blank for one blissful moment of pure ecstacy. 

He comes back to himself as Martin’s thrusts begin to stutter, pace erratic as he chases his own completion, pushing Malcolm’s legs forward once more until they're nearly pressed against his shoulders as he fucks into him, hard and fast, before finally pressing in deep and stilling, coming with a ragged groan. For a moment Malcolm wishes he wasn’t wearing a condom, that the club’s rules didn’t require it, that he could feel the way Martin filled him as he came.

As soon as he finishes Martin sits back on his heels and lowers Malcolm’s legs softly down, letting them fall carefully to the side. He runs his hands over him, starting at his knees and moving up along his flank, across his ribs as far as he can reach and then back down again.

“You’re amazing, Malcolm,” he tells him. 

“Thank you, sir,” Malcolm whispers. He’s exhausted, utterly spent, drifting in a timeless, limitless void. 

Martin gets off the table, walks around to free Malcolm’s wrists, then presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, then lips, before pulling off the blindfold.

Malcolm has to blink several times, allowing his eyes to adjust to even the low light of the club. By the time he can see again Martin has another wipe in hand and he starts to clean off Malcolm’s chest. Before he does, though, he wipes a finger along one line of come, scooping it up and offering it to Malcolm, who flicks out his tongue to lick it off.

“Sir,” he murmurs sleepily.

Martin cleans him gently, then waits with him as he slowly comes back to himself.

“There you are,” Martin says with a smile.

He helps Malcolm to sit, then stand, and leads him over to a chair. There’s water waiting for him in a bottle and he drinks it greedily, finishing it all in one go.

Martin is attentive, but not overly assertive in his care of Malcolm, for which Malcolm is grateful. He’s physically and emotionally wrung out, and while he’s thankful for the support, he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle it if Martin were too affectionate.

They sit silently together, Martin checking in with him occasionally, but for the most part they say nothing. Malcolm doesn’t know what his father is thinking, and he doesn’t care. For his part, he’s… fine. And that is nearly enough to send him into a panic all on it’s own, but he breathes deep and steady and doesn’t let himself go there.

Here, they’re just two men with needs. Nothing more. And that’s good enough for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin pushes Malcolm further than they've ever gone before.
> 
> New tags have been added. PLEASE check them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.... I don't even know. I just really love this kinky stuff and there isn't enough of it in the fandom yet, so here's 7000 more words of pure smut.

Somehow, their arrangement continues to work. With Malcolm off at college most of the year, and boundaries that have been carefully discussed in place when he’s home, they develop a routine that allows them both to take what they need and want from each other without it spilling over into their normal, father and son relationship. At least, not too much. There are some awkward moments in the beginning, some close calls and near slip ups, all on Malcolm’s part, of course. Martin is far too skilled at deception to make such simple mistakes. When it happened, he had easily smoothed over his boy’s errors, brushing them off or turning it into a joke, drawing attention to himself so that Jessica and Ainsley didn’t see the panic flaring in Malcolm’s eyes when he’d realized his mistake.

After such occasions, Martin always made sure to punish Malcolm for his carelessness during their next session together. It didn’t take long for Malcolm to become just as skilled at separating the two parts of his life as Martin is. He is, after all, Martin’s boy.

They’ve been scening together for nearly a year when Martin decides to take things a little further. 

He’s never been into role play, though plenty of subs have asked if he’d be willing to be their ‘doctor’ for the evening. But, that doesn’t mean he’s never used some of his skills and tools of the trade during a session. And the idea of _examining_ Malcolm, of strapping him down and exploring his body in even more intimate ways than they’ve done before, _well_ . It’s something he’s been thinking about, _planning_ even, almost from the beginning. 

And now his boy is ready.

They meet at the club, as always. While Malcolm's wardrobe has expanded significantly over the past year, tonight he's dressed simply in tight leather pants with wide leather cuffs around his wrists. 

Martin had told him not to bother with dressing up, that he wouldn't be wearing clothes long anyways. He has a long night planned for them, and while many times he likes to show his boy off and get him worked up, they don't have time for that this evening. Malcolm doesn't need his harness tonight, either. Martin plans on restraining him—he always does—but the chair itself will be restraint enough. 

Martin watches his boy for several long moments before approaching. He sees the appreciative glances other patrons send his way, the way Malcolm ducks his head shyly when he’s approached, declining their advances with a small smile and a shake of his head. When he sees Martin his eyes light up, his posture shifts. He stands straighter, shoulders up, and while he keeps his head bowed in it’s a sign of submission rather than shyness. He knows who he belongs to, and he’s proud of it.

“Malcolm. Are you ready?” Martin asks when he reaches his boy, collar ready to slide around his throat.

“Yes sir,” Malcolm responds simply, tilting his head back to give Martin access as he slides the collar on and fastens it as he always does, just tight enough to be felt. He also clips a lead into the front ring of the collar. It’s a fairly new addition to their collection, another symbol of Martin’s ownership.

Martin keeps his hands on Malcolm’s throat after he’s finished, pressing both thumbs into the soft skin below his chin and pressing in, forcing Malcolm to tilt his head back even further. He leans over his boy and kisses him deeply, holding him in place as he stakes his claim, thrusting his tongue into his mouth roughly. Malcolm moans against his lips, sinking into his hold, clutching desperately to Martin’s shoulders in order to keep himself upright as Martin pushes him back even further, bearing down on him, overpowering him.

When he pulls away, Malcolm is panting, eyes blown wide, his cock already pressing against the front of his pants after just one kiss. His lips are bruised and spit-slicked and Martin can’t help but stare down at him in awe. He’s so beautiful like this—owned, bowed beneath the force of Martin’s will. He slides his fingers up into Malcolm’s hair and tugs, yanking his head back even further, leaving Malcolm scrambling to keep his balance.

“Sir?” Malcolm whispers, confusion at the harsh treatment clouding his eyes as he searches Martin’s face for a sign of what Martin wants from him.

“Hush, boy. Let me look at you,” he orders.

Malcolm nods, relaxing as much as he can while still holding himself upright, giving himself over to Martin’s whims. Martin leans in to kiss him again, nipping and sucking at his lips, teasing him with tiny licks of his tongue into his mouth, leaving him gasping and breathless, bruising his lips even further. Malcolm’s eyes are closed and he stands still and pliant beneath Martin’s hands, ready to receive whatever else Martin may have for him.

Finally Martin pulls him upright, holding him steady until he comes back to himself and regains his own balance.

“Thank you, sir,” Malcolm tells him once he’s recovered, his eyes flickering to Martin’s for the briefest of moments before he dips his head once more.

“That’s my good boy,” Martin murmurs, patting his cheek lightly. “Let’s go. I have all sorts of things I plan on doing to you tonight.”

He smiles at the shudder that goes through Malcolm as he speaks, appreciating the way his cheeks color when he praises him, and how it turns to a flush of arousal that spreads down his throat and across his chest. Martin grabs hold high up on the leash, leaving just enough room for Malcolm to walk behind him. 

Often when Malcolm is leashed, their journey through the club is slow and meandering, with Malcolm trailing behind Martin with enough distance for others to come up and admire. It’s an opportunity for Martin to show off his boy, and for Malcolm to be reminded that here, he is no longer his own man, that his body belongs to Martin and whoever else Martin allows to enjoy it.

Not tonight, though. Martin keeps him close, leading him purposefully towards the back of the club where the private and semi-private rooms are located. He’s reserved one for the rest of the evening—semi-private, with windows to let others watch, but enough seclusion to allow Martin to focus solely on his work. On his boy.

Martin glances over at Malcolm as he leads him into their room, eager to see his reaction. Malcolm has been walking with his eyes down, trusting Martin to lead him and ignoring the activities taking place throughout the rest of the club. But as Martin stops them just inside the door, he lifts his eyes to take in the room. His eyes grow wide and he gasps softly, practically moaning in anticipation as he looks over the modified examination chair that sits in the center of the room. Martin’s box of toys sits on a table next to it, unopened for now. He didn’t want to give too much away. He can’t quite stop from grinning at Malcolm’s reaction, at his excitement to try new things and his eagerness to please.

“What do you think, boy? Ready to try something new?” Martin asks, giving the leash a little tug to ensure Malcolm’s attention is fully on him once more.

Malcolm looks back at him, nodding emphatically. “Yes, sir. I’m ready. Please.”

“Please what?” Martin presses.

Malcolm flounders for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he works to organize his thoughts and put words to his desires.

“Use me,” he whispers finally. “Please strap me to that chair and use me.”

“Oh, don’t worry boy. That’s exactly what I intend to do.” He leads Malcolm further into the room, closing the door behind them, then reaches up and unclips the leash from Malcolm’s collar. He coils it loosely and sets it on an empty table, then turns his attention to Malcolm’s pants. Martin grabs hold of Malcolm’s hips and yanks him close, grinding himself against Malcolm as he slides his hands back, dipping his fingers beneath the low waistband and sliding his hands down Malcolm’s ass, cupping it and pulling him in even closer.

Malcolm moans, wrapping his arms around Martin’s neck and burying his face in his neck as Martin rubs against him, gasping when Martin slips a finger between his cheeks and circles his hole lightly.

“Who do you belong to, Malcolm?” Martin whispers darkly into Malcolm’s ear as he presses the tip of his finger against the tight furl of muscle guarding Malcolm’s hole.

“You, sir,” Malcolm breaths out, shifting his hips and pressing back against the finger at his entrance, eager to take it further.

Martin chuckles softly, withdrawing his finger and hooking his thumbs around the band of Malcolm’s pants so he can drag them off of him. Malcolm steps out of them and stands, still and bare, before Martin. Martin runs the tip of his finger lightly along the underside of Malcolm’s straining cock, making it jerk and drawing another beautiful moan from the boy before stepping back.

“Get on the chair, Malcolm,” he orders.

Malcolm obeys immediately, settling himself back against the leather and lifting his feet into the stirrups. Martin makes a few quick adjustments to the chair before checking with his boy one more time. 

“Are you ready?”

Malcolm nods, taking a deep, calming breath as he relaxes further back into the chair, ready to give himself over to Martin.

He takes his time strapping Malcolm in, starting at his feet and working his way up his body. He touches Malcolm as he works, running his fingers lightly along his skin, scraping and pinching while he secures the supple leather straps around his ankles, thighs, hips, and chest. Malcolm does his best to remain still as Martin works, clearly fighting the urge to twitch and writhe as Martin teases and torments him. He can’t help but enjoy getting his boy all worked up, even as he straps him down and renders him helpless to do anything about it. Thankfully, Malcolm doesn’t bother holding back on his beautiful moans and gasps. His boy knows by now that if Martin wanted him silent he would give the order, and if not, then it means Martin wants to hear his pretty little noises.

Martin moves to the head of the chair and lifts first one, then the other of Malcolm’s wrists, guiding them back above his head and securing each cuff to the bar that runs along the top of the headrest. It’s set far enough back that Malcolm’s arms are stretched above his head with barely any slack. The set up leaves Malcolm displayed beautifully beneath Martin; his legs are spread, feet elevated, his body held completely immobile by the straps with only his head free to move, leaving him entirely at Martin’s mercy. It’s exactly how Martin wants him tonight. 

Malcolm’s carefully controlled breaths become more and more ragged and desperate with each brush of Martin’s hand over his body. But when Martin steps back Malcolm manages to settle himself once more, his chest rising and falling enticingly while he takes several deep breaths. It’s nearly enough to distract Martin from the task at hand, but he turns away. He’ll have his hands on his boy in only a few more moments.

“Lift your head, and keep in there,” Martin orders. Malcolm obeys, and he slides a blindfold down over his eyes with practiced ease. When he steps away to grab his next tory, Malcolm nearly lets his head fall back, only just remembering the order to keep it up. Martin smiles indulgently, knowing Malcolm can’t see it. He really is a good boy. Sometimes over eager, but always so desperate to please.

“Open,” Martin directs him, pressing the hard plastic ball of a gag against Malcolm’s lips.

Malcolm lets his mouth fall open, lips stretching obscenely around the gag as Martin presses it into his mouth. Malcolm moans around it and Martin can see the spit already gathering in the corners of his mouth as he secures the gag behind his head.

“You can put your head down now,” Martin tells him. 

Malcolm rests his head back obediently, sighing softly.

Martin grips Malcolm’s chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger, turning his head from side to side to judge how securely the blindfold and gag are being held in place. Malcolm moans around the gag, his cock twitching against his chest as Martin looks him over. Clearly, Malcolm knows he’s being _observed_ , that he’s become nothing more than a project to Martin now, and that knowledge has never failed to heighten his boy’s arousal. Martin learned early on that Malcolm likes to be _used_ , like a toy, or a tool. Tonight, he’ll get a taste of what it’s like to be _examined_ , like a specimen. Martin has no doubt it will drive Malcolm mad.

Martin steps back for a moment, giving Malcolm time to adjust and relax. He lays out what he knows he’ll need next—a handful of antiseptic wipes, and the scalpel he’s chosen just for Malcolm. He opens the first wipe quietly and turns back to his boy, looking over the expanse of bare flesh before him with the eye of an artist as he decides where to begin. 

He presses the first wipe to the thin, sensitive skin on the inside of Malcolm's bicep and slides it along from elbow to armpit.

Malcolm startles beneath the touch, sucking in a shocked breath as Martin cleans the area where he'll be working, later. Martin smiles at the response, biting back on a low moan of his own. Malcolm's sensitivity and responsiveness always excite him, and the knowledge that his boy is so desperate for _his_ touch is intoxicating.

He moves down, wiping along the smooth skin of Malcolm’s chest, just above his nipple. Malcolm sucks in another breath, inhaling deeply through his nose as the distinct scent of rubbing alcohol fills the air, and moaning loudly around the gag as he exhales. _Figured it out, have you_? Martin muses as Malcolm shudders beneath him in anticipation. They’ve only done this once or twice before, but he’s sure Malcolm knows what’s coming, now. He grins wickedly, finding himself torn between continuing to torment his boy with these slow, soft swipes of the cool cloth over his body, and hurrying things along so he can get to what’s next.

He continues to work, moving steadily along as he picks areas, seemingly at random, on Malcolm’s body to clean with the antiseptic wipes. When he reaches between Malcolm’s thighs and smooths the wipe back and forth over the small scar there Malcolm whines desperately, his back arching, though it does no good with how tightly he’s strapped in. Martin hasn’t even touched his cock since he strapped him in, but it’s rock hard and dripping precome onto Malcolm’s stomach. Martin swipes the wipe over the liquid pooled there, rubbing it into the taut skin of Malcolm's belly. 

Malcolm groans, low and long, behind the gag, his head thrown back against the chair. The long line of his neck is on display so prettily that Martin can’t help but reach up and wrap his hand around it, squeezing just enough to make his boy choke and jerk once against the restraints before stilling, settling beneath Martin’s grasp in acceptance. His hands are all that move, fists opening and closing as he waits to take his next breath.

Martin doesn’t make him wait long—not as long as he has other times. He relaxes his grip after only a few short seconds, though it’s long enough that his boy is sucking in air desperately, whimpering around the gag as he struggles to regulate his breathing once more.

“No moving now, Malcolm,” he orders, the only warning he gives for what’s coming next.

Malcolm whines, nodding once in understanding before stilling, trying his best to relax, though Martin knows his instincts are urging him to tense in anticipation, to struggle and try to avoid what’s coming.

It doesn’t hurt, not really, no more than a scratch, and barely even leaves a mark. There’s only one spot on Malcolm’s body that Martin has ever left a scar, and that was intentional. Malcolm knows, in his mind, that he isn’t in any real danger. And yet, he also knows that he’s about to be cut with an incredibly sharp knife that could easily kill him. It’s a fascinating mental battle, one that Martin can see being fought out before him in the play of Malcolm’s muscles beneath his skin, the way he tenses, then relaxes as his logical mind wars with his natural survival instincts. 

Martin waits for the moment of release, when Malcolm finally gives up and submits to Martin fully. He knows the signs well, from his other… experiences— _the moment of resignation, of defeat,of acceptance that there’s nothing to be done to avoid the pain that’s to come..._ But, no. That’s not what this is, though the thrill of power is so similar, surging through him with the knowledge that he can do whatever he wants to the body below him. His will is law in this room, Malcolm’s body his domain.

Malcolm is still and silent, his breathing returning to a steady, slow pace that doesn’t threaten to interfere with Martin’s work. Malcolm is _made_ for this—pale, unblemished skin, stretched smooth and tight over just the right amount of well-toned muscle. 

Martin doesn’t start cutting right away, preferring to ease into it. He runs the blade down Malcolm’s left arm, from wrist to shoulder, then switches sides, starting at his opposite wrist, tracing the vein in Malcolm’s forearm, pressing the very tip of the blade into the crook of his elbow, just enough to draw a tiny bead of blood before moving on to his bicep, where he’d prepared him earlier. 

Malcolm’s fists are clenched as he fights to hold himself still, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths, and Martin can just barely hear him whining behind the gag as he presses the blade ever so softly into the skin of Malcolm’s bicep. It’s a long cut, but shallow, one that won’t even leave a mark the next day. 

Martin works his way down his boy’s body, teasing at a nipple with the flat of his blade before cutting a line across his pec, then lower across his stomach, then one that follows the sharp jut of his hip bone. He cleans his blade after each pass, but lets the cuts bleed, enjoying the contrast of red against the pale of Malcolm’s skin. Malcolm does beautifully, breathing steadily through each press of the knife, staying still and mostly silent as Martin works.

Then, Martin runs the scalpel along Malcolm’s cock. The touch is feather light, but Malcolm cries out, his cock jerking against his stomach at the touch of the cool metal blade, precome dribbling freely from the head. Martin gathers it on the tip of the blade and spreads it along Malcolm’s cock in another long sweep that leaves Malcolm panting, practically vibrating, muscles tensed as he fights to remain still.

“You’re doing so wonderfully, Malcolm,” Martin tells him. “You look so beautiful like this, bleeding for me. One more cut, just one more, and then we’ll move on,” he murmurs. “Relax now, that’s my boy.” 

Malcolm nods, sobbing in relief as he relaxes beneath Martin’s hands for the final cut. 

Martin always leaves this particular cut for last. Wrapping his left hand around Malcolm’s thigh to ensure he doesn’t move, he presses the blade against the small scar that’s there and cuts along it, reopening the wound, ensuring his mark won’t fade. Malcolm shudders beneath his touch, groaning desperately and throwing his head back against the chair as Martin spreads the blood along his thigh—another part of this ritual that he never skips. 

He steps back, taking in the sight before him, freeing himself from his pants and stroking his own hard cock languidly as he looks over his handiwork, taking in the small rivulets of blood that have begun to trickle along Malcolm’s skin from the handful of cuts littered across his body. Martin moans, loud enough for Malcolm to hear, letting his boy know just how pleased he is with him. Malcolm sighs in response, deflating as he releases the tension he’s been holding throughout their session. Martin strokes himself once more before turning his attention back to his boy, carefully wiping each cut clean and applying small bandages to keep them closed. He’s not worried about infection or scarring, but they aren’t done for the evening—not even close—and he doesn’t want to bother with the bleeding during the rest of their time together.

Finally, he removes the ball gag, and then the blindfold. Malcolm blinks against the sudden light, and tears that hadn’t been soaked up by the blindfold slide down his cheeks. His lips are spit-slick, shiny and pink, and Martin can’t help but lean in and kiss him, gripping his chin tightly to hold him in place as he fucks into Malcolm’s mouth with his tongue. Malcolm moans wantonly against his lips, opening for him willingly.

“You did so well, Malcolm. Are you alright? Ready to continue?” Martin asks as he pulls away. He watches Malcolm carefully, looking for any signs of distress that he may be trying to hide, or blissfully unaware of in his current state. Malcolm nods, working his jaw to loosen the strain from being held open by the gag before replying.

“Yes sir. I’m ready, please. Please sir.”

“So good for me, boy. My perfect little pain slut,” Martin praises, running a hand over Malcolm’s chest before slapping him across the face. 

Malcolm moans, nodding in enthusiastic agreement. “Yes, yes sir. Yours,” he agrees.

***

Malcolm didn’t realize how much he’d been craving this session with Martin until he feels all of the tension that’s been building up over the course of the last few weeks seep out of him as he finally, finally relaxes after Martin finishes cutting. He hears Martin moans and knows he did well, knows his master is pleased, and he lets go, sinking back into the chair in blissful mindlessness. 

He’s only marginally aware of what’s happening when Martin removes the blindfold and gag. The kiss he receives afterwards is electrifying in it’s sudden intensity, and helps to bring him back to himself, enough that he can respond to Martin’s question. He craves more of whatever his master wants to give him, knowing it will end in mind-blowing pleasure as it always does. 

He has no idea what’s coming next. He can think of a dozen reasons why his master would have chosen this room and this chair, but he doesn’t _know_ , and the anticipation is building beneath his skin as he waits, a constant _thrum_ that sets every nerve ending ablaze, eager for whatever it may be.

Martin’s back is to him, and he’s angled himself so that Malcolm can’t see what he’s doing, but he’s clearly preparing something. Finally, he turns, and Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat as he sees what it is his master is holding.

“Do you know what this is, Malcolm?” he asks, holding up the metal and plastic device.

“Yes, sir. It’s a speculum,” Malcolm answers, eyes wide as he watches Martin approach with the tool. He can see that it’s already been slicked up, the lube practically dripping from it. He drops his head back against the chair with a thud. He’s so fucking turned on he can barely think straight, the idea of Martin opening him up and then keeping him like that, spread, waiting…

“Has anyone ever used one of these on you before, boy?” Martin asks. He positions himself between Malcolm’s spread legs, laying the speculum on the chair as he slicks up a finger, watching Malcolm as he waits for an answer.

Malcolm shakes his head, eyes fixed on Martin’s hands as he works.

“Use your words, boy. I want to hear you,” Martin demands. He circles Malcolm’s hole with the tip of his finger, pushing gently against the tight furl of muscle, just enough for Malcolm to feel it as he waits for his answer.

“No, no sir. Never,” Malcolm answers in a rush, trying in vain to work himself down onto the finger that Martin is using to drive him mad with anticipation.

Martin presses in, then, but not far. Just enough to play with Malcolm’s rim, twisting and pulling with the tip of his finger. “Good, that’s good. I’ll be your first then, eh? _Mmm_ ,” he moans, the sound going straight to Malcolm’s cock, “as it should be. You are mine, after all” Martin says, his tone dark and possessive and pleased.

Malcolm lifts his head and finds his master is watching him, studying his expression as he works his finger in just a bit more. His eyes are dark with desire, mouth slack as he works, but when he meets Malcolm’s gaze he smiles wickedly. It sends a surge of arousal sparking down Malcolm’s spine and he groans, head falling back once more.

“Let’s get you slicked up, and see how you like being opened up for me, shall we?” Martin says, the words drawing another desperate groan from Malcolm’s lips.

Martin sinks down onto his heels and out of Malcolm’s view, leaving him waiting, as blind to what’s coming next as he was when his eyes were covered. His master stops teasing and focuses on getting him slick, sliding a finger coated liberally with lube in and out of his body a few times to get him wet, loosening him just enough that his body relaxes around the single finger inside of him. By the time Martin pulls his finger away Malcolm feels like he’s dripping wet. He can feel the lube dribbling out of his hole and between his cheeks. 

“You're leaking like a girl,” Martin says, rising to his feet. He steps around Malcolm to grab the stool, pulling it into place between Malcolm’s legs. “Mm, yes. Much better. You look lovely like this, dripping and waiting for me to fill you up and spread you open.”

“Please, yes, please,” Malcolm whimpers, looking down along his body to where Martin is seated between his legs. He can just barely see his face now, glimpsing just enough to see the desire burning in Martin’s eyes as he looks Malcolm over with a detached, calculating expression on the rest of his face. Malcolm’s pulse is racing, heart pounding in his as he waits, cock achingly hard against his stomach. He feels so entirely owned beneath that gaze, trapped as he is, helpless beneath his master’s hands, waiting to be used as he sees fit. He loves it. He craves it. He can’t wait to be filled, possessed, by whatever his master chooses to give him. 

The tip of the speculum is cold when Martin presses it against his entrance, and Malcolm hisses in surprise and discomfort. Martin chuckles in response, and doesn’t stop. He presses the tool in in one smooth slide. It isn’t long, a few inches at the most, and slides in easily. Malcolm groans as it goes in, the stretch enough to be felt, but not uncomfortable, especially with how wet he is. 

“Good boy, Malcolm. You took it so well. How does it feel?” Martin asks, sitting up straighter to meet Malcolm’s eyes.

“Good, sir. It feels good to be filled. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Martin huffs, more to himself then Malcolm, and then he starts to spread the three prongs of the speculum, stretching Malcolm open one squeeze of the lever at a time.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” Malcolm moans, twisting his head back and forth as his body adjusts to the instrument working inside of him. It’s such a foreign feeling, being spread open by something so impersonal. There’s no slow loosening of muscles around a finger or two, just the clinical click, click of the speculum as Martin works him open, bit by bit. After the first two clicks, the stretch starts to burn. The next click sets him to cursing once more as he struggles to relax around the tool, and he can actually feel the chill of the air in the room seeping into his hole where it’s held open and waiting. _That_ nearly does his head in, and for a moment he thinks he might be able to come from the feel of being held open beneath his master’s gaze alone.

“Oh, you like that, do you boy?” Martin chuckles as he watches the way Malcolm’s cock twitches on his stomach. “Like being opened up for me? Just waiting for your little hole to be explored?”

“Jesus, fuck,” Malcolm exclaims at his master’s words. “Oh, fuck, yes. Yes, I like it.”

“I thought you might. My little toy. So eager to be played with,” Martin muses. “You should see how pretty you look right now, Malcolm. Still so wet inside, all spread out for me, with nothing to hide. You really do belong to me now, don’t you? You’d give me anything I asked,” Martin says, and as he speaks he squeezes the lever of the speculum once more, spreading Malcolm even more.

“Yes, yes, yes, oh fuck!” Malcolm exclaims. He can feel every twitch and shift of the speculum inside of his body, and guesses that Martin must be tightening the screw that will keep it locked in place. “Sir, please, I need,” he moans out, pulling uselessly against the restraints as he searches for some sort of stimulation, his nerve endings ablaze. 

“What do you need, boy? Tell me what you want.”

“T-touch me. Please. I need to feel you,” Malcolm begs. Being spread is amazing but he needs _more_ , needs to be filled.

“Touch you were, boy? Here, here?” Martin asks, sliding his hand along Malcolm’s inner thigh and then playing with his balls, tugging and squeezing before moving on. “What about here?” he asks, leaning back to run the tip of his finger in a featherlight drag along the bottom of Malcolm’s foot.

The touch is so unexpected that it drives the air from Malcolm’s lungs in a rush. “Fuck!” he gasps, his whole body spasming as a shockingly intense bolt of pleasure shoots through his system. He clenches unconsciously around the speculum, which sends another wave of arousal coursing through him, right on the heels of the first, leaving him breathless and so achingly empty it hurts. “Oh my god, oh my god,” he moans. “Sir, please, your fingers. Fuck me with your fingers, I’m all opened up for you. Touch me, inside,” he begs, forcing himself to say the words despite the flush of embarrassment that spreads over his cheeks and chest at the admission. “I need to feel you inside of me.”

“Of course you do, little slut,” Martin moans, running his hands back and forth along the insides of Malcolm’s thighs. “Someday I’m going to strap you down and leave you like this. Spread wide, and let everyone here play with you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to be their toy, too?”

Malcolm whines, nodding, Martin’s words robbing him of coherent thought and leaving him only with the image of being surrounded by a sea of anonymous people, being poked and prodded and fucked by whoever wanted a piece of him.

He’s imagining all of this when Martin finally, _finally_ , gives him what he wants. There’s a sudden press of fingertips against the walls of his channel and he gasps. It takes no time at all for Martin to find Malcolm’s prostrate and to start rubbing against it relentlessly. Malcolm cries out at the waves of pleasure the touches send coursing through him, his head turning fitfully back and forth against the chair, cock twitching and jerking on his stomach, precome leaking freely from the tip as Martin works him over.

“Is this what you wanted, boy? Is this where you wanted to be touched? Where you were so desperate to have my fingers?” Martin demands. He stands and leans over Malcolm’s body to grasp his chin in his free hand in a harsh grip, jerking Malcolm’s head up and forcing him to meet his eyes. “Answer me!”

“Yes! Oh, fuck. Fuck, sir, yes. Oh god. I’m going to come, fuck, I’m going to come,” Malcolm sobs. He can feel the pressure building low in his belly, the relentless attack on his prostate diving him closer to the brink with each press of Martin’s fingers. His master hasn’t let up since he started, alternating his attack between rubbing and tapping, his fingers unhindered with the way that Malcolm is spread open by the speculum.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, sir, _please_ ,” Malcolm moans, helpless beneath the onslaught of Martin’s fingers. Just when he’s sure he’s going to come, Martin stops, pulling his fingers out with a filthy squelching noise that betrays just how wet Malcolm still is. He releases Malcolm’s chin and pinches his nipple, twisting cruelly while the fingers that had been buried in his ass only moments before snap up to wrap painfully tight around the base of his cock. Malcolm screams, muscles tensing as he strains against the straps holding him down, his mind going blank as his senses are overloaded, the shock of the orgasm denial mixed with the _painpleasurepain_ of Martin’s fingers on his nipple driving all coherent thought from his mind and leaving him a sobbing, panting mess.

When he comes back to himself Martin has moved away, his back to Malcolm once more, fiddling with something on the small table where his toys are all laid out.

“ _Sir_ ,” he breathes out, whining, pleading for a reprieve. “What? _can’t…_ ” 

“You can, Malcolm,” Martin assures him, turning to face him while still keeping the table block from his view. “We’re nearly there, now. You’re doing so well, so wonderful for me. _Fuck_ , boy. I nearly came from watching you, just now. You’re so sensitive, so expressive. Never, ever hold anything back from me, understand? I want to know everything you’re feeling.”

Malcolm is only vaguely aware of what his master is saying. He knows he’s pleased, and that sends a thrill of satisfaction sparking along his spine, makes him shiver and sigh. His eyes catch sight of Martin’s cock where it juts, hard and slick with precome, and he can’t look away. His master’s cock is lovely, average length, but thick. It fills him perfectly, and he loves being able to swallow it down, choke on it…

“Malcolm!” Martin exclaims, slapping him lightly across the face, just hard enough to bring his attention back to the present. “Are you with me, boy?”

“Yessir,” Malcolm slurs. He blinks rapidly, clearing his mind of fantasies and focusing once more on what’s actually happening. Martin is standing next to him now, his hand resting on Malcolm’s stomach, rubbing small circles there as he waits for Malcolm to return mentally. Malcolm nods up at him and takes a deep, centering breath. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“What were you thinking about?” Martin asks, a playful smile playing around his lips.

Malcolm blushes. “Your cock, sir,” he answers honestly, letting his gaze drift down Martin’s body once more.

Martin fists himself, stroking himself in long, smooth pulls. “Well, that’ll come soon enough. But for now, it’s time to focus on your pretty little cock.”

Malcolm snaps his gaze up to meet Martin’s eyes at that, surprised.

“I’ve got your sweet little ass all opened up and waiting for me. Now it’s time to stuff this other little hole of yours,” Martin says, reaching down to swipe the pad of his thumb over the head of Malcolm’s cock.

“ _What_?” Malcolm hisses out, and he can’t help but glance down at his own cock in sudden apprehension.

“Do you know what a sound is, Malcolm?” Martin asks.

Malcolm shakes his head, eyes darting back and forth between Martin’s face, hands and his own cock. It’s still achingly hard, and he’d love nothing more than for Martin to touch him, bring him off with a firm grip and steady pace, but he realizes now that’s not what Martin has in mind.

Martin reaches behind him and lifts a thin, metal rod from the table there. Malcolm can’t look away.

“This is a sound, Malcolm. Medically speaking, they’re used to check the urethra for blockages,” Martin explains, his voice calm, steady, matter of fact. He wipes the sound down carefully with an antiseptic wipe as Malcolm watches, talking all the while. “For our purposes, they have many uses. Not everyone enjoys the experience of being sounded, and so I want you to be honest with me as we move forward. But, I have a feeling you’ll love it,” Martin tells him. Once he’s done sanitizing the sound he dribbles lube down along its entire length, then lays it across Malcolm’s stomach.

“Do you trust me, Malcolm?” he asks, looking him straight in the eye.

Malcolm nods. He does, of course he does. He’s nervous, but not scared. “Yes sir. I trust you.”

“That’s my good boy,” Martin praises. He lifts Malcolm’s cock, circling the head with his thumb and forefinger, and dribbles lube into the hole there.

Malcolm gasps at the sensation, watching, entranced, as the lube disappears inside of his cock. He drops his head back, moaning as Martin spreads what’s left of the lube around the head of his cock with his thumb, pressing his finger against the slit in a pale comparison of what’s to come. 

Malcolm looks up at the ceiling, mind racing a hundred miles a minute as he waits for what’s next. He’s torn between wanting to look and being afraid that if he does he’ll tense and fight and upset Martin who’s already said he’s been such a good boy. He can do this, he can…

The first slide of the tip of the sound into his cock feels like he’s being cut open, though it doesn’t hurt, not exactly. It burns, and he’s never, ever been so aware of being _penetrated_ as he is in that moment. The rod feels like ice, intensely cold against his sensitive skin, sliding into him where nothing ever has before.

He lifts his head to watch in fascination, unable to help himself, as the rod sinks slowly down into his cock.

“Holy fuck. Oh, fuck,” he moans. “ _Ungh_.”

Martin draws the sound up slowly, nearly all the way out, before letting it sink back down.

“How does it feel, my boy?” he asks. He keeps one hand wrapped firmly around Malcolm’s cock, holding it upright and stroking his thumb back and forth across the vein, just below the head, sending sparks of pleasure skittering down through him and mixing with the utterly foreign sensation of the sound sliding into his cock, filling him.

“It’s. It’s intense,” Malcolm admits, panting, eyes blown wide as he watches the sound sink further down. 

“I bet you didn’t know that you had three holes I could stuff, did you boy?” Martin asks with a smirk, reaching up to slide two fingers into Malcolm’s mouth.

Malcolm moans around them, sucking eagerly and flicking his tongue around them.

“Yes, boy. _Mmm_ , you’re so good for me. So good at taking whatever I want to give you. You really do belong to me now, don’t you. Every. Single. Inch of you.” Martin presses his fingers in further until Malcolm is gagging around them, tears streaming from his eyes. Martin slides his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing them, dripping wet, along Malcolm’s throat and down to tease at a nipple, circling it lightly before pinching harshly.

Malcolm cries out, ragged, almost pained, as the fingers playing with his nipples become too much, adding to the already overwhelming sensations his body is enduring. 

“Sir, _please_ , I can’t. It’s too much. Fuck, sir. Please,” he begs. He doesn’t want it to end, not completely. It’s just all so much, he needs some sort of relief.

“Are you ready to come for me, Malcolm?” Martin asks, relenting, at least, from teasing his nipple. He turns his full attention back to Malcolm’s cock, dribbling more lub down around the sound and into his hole.

Malcolm whines at the sensation, nodding in desperation. “Yes, fuck. Yes sir. Please, please let me come!”

Martin doesn’t reply, his whole focus on Malcolm’s cock as he grips the top of the sound firmly between two fingers and pulls it up a few inches before letting in sink back down. He starts to jerk Malcolm with his other hand, stroking along the underside of his cock in tandem with the movement of the sound.

“Oh my god. Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Malcolm repeats over and over as Martin works his cock, inside and out.

“Do you think you can come from this, boy?” Martin asks him.

Malcolm moans, long and low at the thought. “I don’t know. It’s… god it’s so strange. But, fuck, it feels… it’s so intense.”

Martin starts to stroke him faster, wrapping his fist more fully around his cock and jerking him in earnest, leaving the sound in but not playing with it any longer.

“Yes, yes, _hng_ , oh fuck, sir. Sir, I’m going to come,” Malcolm moans, his pleas turning nearly incoherent as Martin continues to bring him off. His whole body tenses, his head thrown back against the chair as his orgasm builds. In one swift motion Martin pulls the sound from his cock, just before he starts to come. The drag of the rod along the inside of his cock is electrifying and propels him into the most intense orgasm he’s ever experienced. His vision goes white and he forgets to breathe for several long moments, losing himself in a rush of pure ecstasy. 

When he comes back to himself, Martin is between his legs, one hand wrapped around his thigh, one stripping his cock once more—still?—as he fucks him. Malcolm’s hard, again, already, Martin’s complete possession of his body quickly driving him towards a second orgasm.

“There you are, my boy,” Martin grunts out. “You feel incredible. You’re so wet, you’re taking me so well. My perfect little pet,” he praises, the words interspersed with grunts and groans as he thrusts into Malcolm relentlessly. “You have no idea what it did to me, seeing you take everything I gave you, you did so well.”

The words trickle into Malcolm’s brain through a fog of pleasure, his arousal building low in his belly, spurred on by Martin’s praise. He drags in a desperate gasp of air after each thrust, the punch of Martin’s cock inside of him driving a litany of sounds from his body, mindless little _guh, guh, guh’s_ spilling from his lips as he takes his master’s final gift to him.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you,” he groans, even as he feels his orgasm cresting once more. “May I come, please?” he begs.

“Yes, fuck. I want to feel you come on my cock,” Martin tells him, stroking him faster until Malcolm comes with a shout, clenching around Martin as he paints his stomach with his spend once more. 

Martin moans loudly and wraps both arms around Malcolm’s legs, fucking him hard, chasing his own release with a single-minded determination. Malcolm is completely boneless, drifting in a sea of sensation, barely aware of what’s happening when Martin’s thrusts become erratic, then finally still as he gives one more desperate thrust, burying himself deep in Malcolm’s body and spilling out his release.

Martin takes a moment, panting, rubbing along Malcolm’s legs as he recovers from his own orgasm.

“That’s my good boy,” he murmurs finally, standing and pulling out. Malcolm whines and shudders, so overstimulated that even that is too much for him. “Hush, hush Malcolm. It’s over now. You did so well, so good for me,” Martin soothes.

He steps away, pulling off his condom and cleaning himself up, tucking himself back into his pants before turning his full attention back to Malcolm.

Malcolm waits, patient, unmoving. He doesn’t have the strength to do anything more than lay there and watch with eyes half open as Martin begins to free him from the restraints, massaging his skin gently where it’s red and sore from how hard he’d fought against them throughout their session. Martin lifts Malcolm’s legs carefully from the stirrups, letting them hang from the end of the chair, then continues up to free his hips and chest, and finally his wrists. He lowers each arm slowly, letting them readjust to the new position. 

Finally, he cleans off Malcolm’s chest and stomach, wiping away the come with soft, gentle strokes. He gathers some of it onto his finger and presses it against Malcolm’s lips. Malcolm opens willingly, licking his master’s fingers clean.

With each gentle touch, each careful pass of the cloth over his skin as Martin cares for him, he comes back to himself. He’s exhausted, completely and utterly spent. He feels thoroughly debauched and completely claimed, and he accepts both feelings gladly, basking in them. 

“Are you back with me, Malcolm?” Martin asks once he’s finished.

Malcolm nods slowly, then stretches, tensing and relaxing his muscles languidly, smiling at each pull and ache he feels. 

“Words, Malcolm,” Martin tuts.

“Yes, sir. I’m with you. Just, very tired. I might… I don’t know if I can get home,” he admits.

“Don’t worry about that, my boy. I’ll take care of you. Did you enjoy yourself?”

Malcolm’s eyes are heavy, he can barely hold them open, but a lazy smile creeps across his face. “Oh yes sir. That was incredible. I feel incredible. Thank you.”

He’s drifting off, unable to keep his eyes open any longer, a bone deep exhaustion stealing over him and pulling him into oblivion. As he drifts off he feels gentle fingers on his forehead, brushing the hair back from his face as his father whispers, “my beautiful boy,” and his smile grows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you are enjoying this fic, love Prodigal Son, and are 18+, I'd love for you to come hang out on the brand new [Discord Server](https://discord.gg/6ytNM9jDBf) It is open to all ship-positive, kink-positive people who are looking for a space to chat, get to know, and enjoy the show with other fans in a safe and positive environment!


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